This story has a bit of chemistry and a lot of fantasy. Each of those components has been included with a great deal of liberties. I make no claims of accuracy regarding the chemistry.
"Napoleon!"
The growl in the man's throat was ominous, causing several people to back away from the object of the menacing sound. The one being named raised his head, much like a wary animal might as it considered options for escape from a dangerous predator, sniffing the air for clues of the direction from which it might be coming. He heard the approach, but it was too late to avoid the danger. As the onlookers found safer positions from which to view the approaching storm, the dark cloud that was Illya Kuryakin made his way into the commissary, not caring if there were witnesses to the carnage he had in mind for his partner. Napoleon Solo had gone too far this time. He had abused the Russian for the last time, and taken liberties with his personal life that would bend the good nature of the most patient of men.
"When was it, Napoleon, that you quite lost your mind? How is it possible that a sane man, my friend no less, could stoop to this level of disregard for my privacy? Have you no limits?"
Everyone had left the room by now. Whatever it was, no one wanted to be there during the confrontation between these two. Clash of the Titans came to mind, and curiosity just wasn't enough to merit the potential for whatever damage might come next.
Napoleon just sat there, his expression betraying nothing in the upraised eyes that were full of empathy and completely guileless.
"Illya, what on earth are you talking about? What can I possibly have done to you that would warrant this outburst?"
Still showing no signs of wrong doing, he looked the soul of compassion now, full of concern for his enraged friend.
"You know what you've done. It came in the mail today".
He let that have its effect, the blue eyes icy and intense; the lower lip in its perpetual pout. Napoleon looked nonplussed, but not admitting to anything. Still, the mail…he hadn't counted on that.
"So, I bet you're wondering what that is all about…"
It wasn't what Illya thought. This was all in the line of duty; he would come around … eventually.
"Let me see what you got in the mail". Napoleon took the letter from his friend's hand, avoiding the murderous look in his eyes and hoping to avoid any violence during the transfer of the piece of paper. They had sent a copy of the ad; he should have thought of that.
"Hmmm…yep, this is what the old man ordered. Nice ad, don't you think…?"
Yep, that was the effect he anticipated. The blond looked as though he'd been slapped. Waverly was behind this?
"What are you talking about? This is a personals ad. It says here I'm looking for love".
The growl was back. When he used that tone, he usually had a Thrush after him, or a bullet.
"Yes, well you see…' how to phrase this…
"It seems that Thrush is utilizing a dating service in order to recruit new hires. You seemed a logical choice, with a change in name, of course. I mean, you can't just sign up as Illya Kuryakin".
That was the truth. The CEA had simply neglected to inform his moody partner of the plan concocted by him and their superior.
Illya looked only slightly less crazed. He had his suspicions about whose idea this was, but if it were actually part of an assignment…
"So, I am to respond to offers that will come from…Thrush? But none of the others. I don't have to date anyone?"
This was a nightmare, something out of his worst case scenario file that he kept next to the one holding his best kept secrets.
"Look, Illya, I'm sorry we didn't fill you in on this sooner. The thing is, you were still out of the country on that Gibraltar affair when this came up. Mr. Waverly and I sorted through it and your name was at the top. You have the profile of the types of people they seem to be after".
As much as Napoleon hated to admit it, they wanted young, hip looking people with language skills. This seemed to be a preamble to infiltrating college campuses and coffee houses. The times were changing, and Thrush was looking to the future with a new breed of agent. Illya could blend into that scene easily. He, on the other hand, was destined for the more erudite and polished environs of swanky nightclubs and ladies' boudoirs.
"When do we brief on this?" Resignedly, Illya thought it prudent to relinquish his objections. It was an assignment, and he couldn't refuse.
The Look of Love dating service had a nice office near the NYU campus, making it easy for the students to drop in and check the progress in their search for the perfect man or woman. The underside of the operation was the recruitment division that would cull the applications looking for candidates to lure into Thrush. It wasn't too difficult to find the few who were willing, the rhetoric not completely forthcoming but still attractive to a few thrill seekers. For others, the sell was not so much difficult as in need of the finesse of a background story. Of course, it wasn't a true story, and a few of them would find out too late that it was more of a nightmare. Once in Thrush it was nearly impossible to escape with your life.
The building was a comfortable brownstone that had been converted into a modern office complete with avocado green shag carpeting and a pale blue Danish modern sofa. The accessories were all done in the same shades, the wood in blonde tones against pale cream walls that made the room look as though it were swathed in soft light all day long. The receptionist was also blonde, and wore a baby blue mini-skirt topped by a shell top of the same color. She wore shoes the same green as the carpet, creating the sense that she was one of the accessories in much the same manner as a pillow or piece of art.
Into this room walked another blond, this one with eyes that sparked off of the room's décor, his black turtleneck and jeans punctuating a stark contrast to the cool smooth hues of these surroundings. The girl at the desk sucked in her breath when she saw him, hoping fervently that there were no matches for him in the files, and that she could have him all to herself. She flushed slightly at the things she considered…
"Um…hello.'
Perfect teeth in a perfect smile greeted Illya as he approached her desk. He noticed a slight color to her complexion, thinking again about how Napoleon chided him regarding his effect on women.
"May I help you with something?"
She regarded him as a cat might consider a bird; curiously at first, then with a design on how best to consume it. Now it was the man who felt a rush in his heartbeat, fully empathizing with the bird.
"I …um…(sigh) I sent in to this place looking for…a date…I think you say that, yes?"
Illya was to play at being French, since Russian might look too suspicious. He affected an accent, although the cover story would indicate much time having been spent in England.
"Vous êtes français? Quel est votre nom?" She slipped easily into his language, and she hoped it would make a good impression…
"Oui, je suis français. Mais, nous pouvons parler Anglais." He preferred English, here in this setting. He was supposed to be trying to assimilate this culture, so decided it would be better to not digress back to French.
She obliged. She had an idea obliging him in most anything would be a pleasure. She asked his name, being pleased with the romantic sound of his reply.
"Andre' Beauvais. I have a copy of the ad that you have for me…that is correct?" His eyes met hers in a plaintive, naïve expression.
"Good then. Let's find your application. I'm sure we have something…er, someone…for you. Please, have a seat".
With that she rose from her chair and went into another room, to the right of this main office. He assumed it was to confer with whomever was actually in charge, as he did not think it was the girl. She was gone for several minutes, and when she returned an older woman accompanied her. This one was taller and about 40, he thought. Her hair was short and a darker shade of blonde, curling around her face in a very seductive manner, highlighting her eyes that were a deep shade of brown. He wondered if her hair color were natural, then returned his attention to the file in her hands. He was, it seemed, of interest to them both.
"Mr. Andre' Beauvais, I am Miss North. Welcome to The Look of Love. I believe we have something of interest for you. Would you like to come into my office, and we shall…chat".
The invitation was somehow more intimate sounding than he thought appropriate for a business, and her expression indicated an interest in the young man that extended beyond examining paperwork. Illya smiled and nodded his head, taking a last glance at the pretty receptionist, wondering if he couldn't just date her and call the job done.
"Beauvais, is that from the town of Beauvais? It means beautiful, if I recall; and certainly appropriate I see".
The smile sent chills up the Russian's spine, and he wondered if somehow Waverly and Napoleon had made a mistake about the nature of this front. Thrush might be recruiting gigolos and prostitutes from the way she was examining him. This was not a comfortable place for him, and he knew instinctively that it would not end well for him.
"We here at Look of Love, or LOL as we like to say, are not merely a dating service. We also have referrals for modeling assignments. I am quite certain that we could place you…easily. There is a market for your look these days. Needless to say, the dating would most probably follow that path, and we would have accomplished two goals for you; a career and love. Is that something that might interest you, Andre'?
He hoped he wasn't sweating. The look remained impassive, only slightly interested. Should he jump at the offer? It was unforeseen, he was certain of that, and it would be unprofessional of him to refuse it. The things he did for his UNCLE…
"Miss North, the offer is kind and…quite a surprise. Are these paying jobs?" He had to indicate an interest in the money, otherwise she might suspect. She affected a pleased look, running her eyes over his face and body in a slow, caressing manner. She was obvious and didn't care.
"Yes, Andre' my dear, you will be paid. Perhaps we can schedule a photo shoot for…hmmm…I have an opening tomorrow at 10:00AM. Can you make it?" She knew he would, and he had no choice but to succumb to this part of the charade. Napoleon would never let him live this one down, but as long as the photos never saw the light of day at headquarters, he could endure it.
"Oui, Miss North, that will be fine. Should I wear anything en particulier?" He slid into the French, adding a type of naïveté to the subterfuge. She seemed to approve. The beautiful Frenchman would serve Thrush well, she reasoned. And, perhaps her own needs might be met…
"Just whatever you like will be fine. We have a date then, Monsieur Beauvais. We will meet here, and then drive to the studio. Nous pouvons apprendre à se connaître un peu mieux". He didn't think he wanted to get to know her better. Napoleon, what have you done?
Illya headed back to the apartment they had secured for this assignment. He was living in a loft near the campus, furnished as though for a student (which wasn't far from how his own home actually looked), and entirely secured. He opened up his communicator:
"Open channel D, Kuryakin here."
The familiar sound of his partner flirting with one of the girls met him and he immediately wished the man nothing but bad luck in securing a date for weeks to come.
"Ah, tovarisch, how goes it? Do you have a date yet?" The smirk was obvious, even over the device in his hands.
"Of a sort. They want me to take modeling assignments. It seems that is also a part of their…service".
Silence. Napoleon always wondered why women found his friend attractive. Not that he begrudged the smaller man his due, but anything that wasn't his own conquest naturally caused him to pause and wonder if he lacked something. It was a notion he shrugged off easily.
"Modeling. We didn't know about that. What's the agenda?"
Illya knew Napoleon had straightened up slightly, readjusting his head and posturing himself differently at the indication of someone favoring the younger agent with an appreciative eye. It was a weakness in his friend, this barely visible hint of insecurity where he was concerned. Illya found it amusing to play with it sometimes. He was, after all, Russian.
"I have a photo shoot tomorrow and then…lunch with Miss North. She seems to be in charge of this office. I fear she has designs on me as dessert".
That was the truth, and he didn't look forward to wiggling out of whatever grasp she might gain on him. Unlike his partner, he had no desire to play the sex game in the line of duty. Well, that receptionist maybe…
"Well my friend, it's all in a day's work. Ours is not to reason why, etc…' He cringed at the allusion to dying in the line of duty.
"Shall we have dinner tonight and discuss the next steps?" It was a welcome invitation. Perhaps Napoleon could take his place yet…
"Yes, let's do that. Meet me here, though. And try to look less…Solo. I'm supposed to be a poor immigrant student".
He didn't think a custom tailored suit would fit his cover, should someone be watching.
"Ok, for the sake of the mission, I'll dress down a bit. Maybe I can be your agent".
Napoleon grinned at the expression he knew was on his partner's face. Only Illya could be offered this assignment and consider it torture.
"Eight then?"
"Eight it is".
When Napoleon arrived at the apartment of Andre' Beauvais, the man who answered the door was still dressed in black jeans and a black turtleneck; some things were destined to remain the same.
"Come in, Napoleon. Welcome to the loft" Illya smiled slightly, genuinely glad to see his friend; also glad to be in this place, as the loft appealed to him greatly. It reminded him of Europe, and the pleasant memories of his times in France and England were revived in this environment. For the occasion he had vodka on ice as well as bourbon for his friend. He had a large salad of greens, the result of foraging an Italian market close by, a wheel of brie and some crusty bread. He had made a soup of chicken broth and escarole, adding chopped tomato and canella beans, basil and garlic. His melancholy for the pleasant times he had enjoyed in Paris and then in London rivaled anything in New York. Aside from his friendship with Napoleon, there was sometimes a warmth that he missed in the surroundings of skyscrapers and too much glass. Contrary to the Soviet image, he did not prefer the harsh lines of Ayn Rand or Aldous Huxley and the worlds they portrayed. The feel of old brick and masonry, wood enriched by age and the patina on ironworks; all of these things were the tactile remembrances of a romantic chapter of his life that, although sometimes under the watchful eye of Moscow, still felt to him more real than his current city's surroundings.
Napoleon thought him frugal for living in an older building rather than the modern high rise that he favored. It had nothing to do with the cost, it was the atmosphere he longed for, and old buildings and old country images were more easily conjured among the immigrant and ethnic neighborhoods he frequented, much like the old books he collected. Illya was one of those people, and it was something he doubted his friend would ever understand.
Dinner was spent in conversation about the modeling and dating service. This had to go in the books as one of the oddest affairs they could remember. Eventually the subject of recruiting would come up, it was just a matter of time. Illya just needed to stay with it and not yield to his distaste of the entire scenario.
"I have no desire to be chased by this Miss North. She clearly has designs on me". Solo noted that it wasn't so much a dread in his voice as he spoke of her, rather a resignation to the inevitable. Not inclined to performing intimate acts for the sake of the job, he knew that if Kuryakin were called upon, he would inevitably yield to it.
"You need to bait her, keep her interested without giving her what she's after. That way, maybe she'll be willing to give you more information than if you submit to her too soon', Illya's expression was unreadable.
"Hey, I'm just saying…sometimes it works that way". He couldn't help the smile.
"I don't intend to go down easily". The blond eyebrows raised in response to Napoleon's guffaw of laughter.
"No, tovarisch, I don't suppose you will".
The next day Illya made sure to arrive at the offices of The Look of Love at exactly ten o'clock. He wore faded jeans and a white shirt; the top three buttons were left undone. Boots served to punctuate an air of casual indifference. He swung a leather jacket over his shoulder and carried a cap in his hand as he stood in the reception area, looking already as though he were posing for the camera. It was a natural stance, practiced during the many surveillances on which he had been forced to appear casually decorating the scene of some intrigue. Now, in this place, he had the look of the current mood; slightly disheveled but so exotically appealing as to force a sigh out of the females in the room. Only his furrowed brow indicated any sense of discomfort, making him that much more attractive to his audience.
"Mr. Beauvais, you may go into Miss North's office and wait. She'll be with you in a few minutes". The pretty blonde receptionist still had hopes of a rendezvous with the pretty blond Frenchman…so many possibilities.
He looked around and then thanked her, turning to enter the den of this latest dragon lady. What he did for the cause of law and order.
"Ah, my dear Andre', thank you for waiting.'' Miss North entered after nearly thirty minutes, her bright blue suit in sharp contrast to the interior of her office. She had her hair swept back today, revealing an exceptionally pretty face. Perhaps Illya had been wrong about her age, she seemed to look younger today. That caused him to wonder if her anticipation of being with him had somehow brightened her appearance.
Not ego, just a quirk of physiology was the reasoning that followed.
As for Miss North, she thought the young blond looked even more delicious today than he had yesterday. Something about him was very enigmatic, beyond his looks…he had secrets that heightened his appeal. She was certain she would find them out eventually.
"Are you ready? We can take a taxi rather than fight traffic. I've called for one already". At that, her intercom buzzed; the cab was outside.
"What exactly will be the agenda, if I may ask?" Illya wondered what a photo shoot would require, never having done more than pose for a work related portrait. He doubted it would be as simple this time, suddenly panicked that it might be a clothing optional event. He sincerely hoped not.
The trip to the studio was about a half an hour, darting through traffic until they arrived at a studio in the Greenwich Village. He was very familiar with the environs here, and hoped he wouldn't run into someone who knew him. He thrust the cap onto his head, lowering it so his eyes were partially hidden. Smuggling into a hostile camp might be easier than walking through the familiar neighborhood, and he had no desire to be in the hands of Miss North under any but positive circumstances. When their taxi came to a halt and the destination was clear to him, he moved quickly, ducking his head moodily. He didn't wait for the woman, letting her settle the fare as he waited inside the doorway. Once she was inside, he followed her up a set of stairs, then into the double glass doors of the Brinden Photography Studio. It was unknown to him, so hopefully he was also a stranger to those inside.
"Ah, Yvonne, it has been too long', the enthusiastic greeting was made by a man in his sixties, or close to it. He had the look of an artiste; his hair was longer than most men his age, his clothing more indicative of European taste than American. He looked at Illya with an approving eye, then back to Miss North.
"And, who do we have here, luv? You seem to have found yourself someone pretty enough to photograph, or something more…" The wink did not go unnoticed by the Russian, or the question mark in his tone.
"This is Andre' Beauvais, dear Robert. He is my most recent discovery, brought here for your magic touch".
Miss North seemed particularly happy, and no doubt her eyes looked forward to feasting on the session ahead of them. He took her aside, speaking softly.
"He is not tall, Yvette. Still, he's well built and very good looking. He looks very current, to be sure".
Brinden's approval having been gained, Yvonne North turned to her new recruit and eyed him admiringly.
"Yes, to all of it my friend. And, no doubt, a very able man once he has joined us completely".
All of this was just out of his hearing, making the blond bristle slightly at his inability to eavesdrop on the deliberately muted conversation. He wondered at what point the pitch would be made for joining Thrush, and whether or not it would be obvious or obtuse. Thinking that the nefarious organization was better at the former, he somehow doubted that this woman was their normal thug.
Amidst the waves of recollection of why he was here, he was at the same time feeling more and more rescinded into his former life, the ancient environments of past experiences somehow more prevalent in his memories than the life he felt himself trying to keep in his grasp. He passed it off as the cover story, entrenched as he was in the French and the clothing even…he was thinking in French more than English during the past hour or so. In a rush of cognizance from which he hadn't known a relief was necessary, he began to surmise that there had been something in the taxi, or perhaps in her fragrance. He needed to be on alert. This, he reasoned, was part of their tactic. Now aware, he began to act the part he believed they expected to see, but remained conscious of his real self. How they had accomplished this would be a matter of further investigation, but just now…
"Andre, will you come over here please?' Yvonne North motioned for him and smiled with the pleasure again of the cat surveying her prey.
"Yes, here darling. Isn't he beautiful, Robert. My luck must be guided by the stars these days, as someone of this caliber comes along so infrequently".
Illya was a prize then. Napoleon would be jealous over the unguarded compliments he was hearing.
"Yes, yes…I envy you the rights afforded for acquiring him first. Now, over here young man. Get rid of the coat and hat, and…yes right there".
The photographer motioned for Illya to drop the coat on the floor, along with his cap. Then he stammered slightly, remembering to allow them whatever they wished to do in the guise of his being affected.
"Here, let's take the shirt out and unbutton it…no, leave it on but…here…pushed aside like this". The motion of the man's fingers on Illya's chest was almost more than he could tolerate. He resisted the urge to grab his wrist and snap it in two, the familiarity of his gesture too full of suggestion.
"Oh, Robert, this will be good. I think he looks very moody, perfect".
Yvonne looked more closely at the blond's chest and abdomen, running her fingers over faded scars that were subtly hidden beneath equally blond hair. She didn't ask, but it somehow made him even more appealing, and dangerous perhaps. The blue eyes were a ruse. This one was no innocent. For his part, Illya felt exposed to these strangers. Ironically, it would serve to enhance his moodiness in front of the camera, pleasing the THRUSH operative completely.
Illya took their direction, subduing every impulse to render them both unconscious and bolt from the room. He looked into the camera, away, to the left and the right. He found they liked his lower lip quit a lot, encouraging the natural pout, wanting it even more pronounced. The lighting was arranged so that one side of his body remained in shadow, and his posing became a reflection of his natural grace, and the daily routine of batting away bad guys with sometimes effortless motions.
To say that the woman and photographer were pleased would have been profoundly understating the obvious. This man photographed like a dream, the blue eyes holding the camera's lens, as though even the inanimate object had discerning taste. The Russian agent wondered if it were the drug that made him so moldable, its effect causing him to move easily under the photographer's direction. He found that he did not hate it as he had anticipated, although he was not allowing himself any delusions of finding a new career. He did this as a matter of necessity; still, there was no harm in doing it well.
"Andre' dear, you are a dream. This session will yield a goldmine, I think.'' Yvonne's enthusiasm was genuine, it seemed, and Illya returned a pleasing reply, mostly within the look he generously threw her way. He hated to think that he was a natural at this; it was too much like his partner and they needed only one Napoleon between them.
"Now, just one more thing before you head for home, will you be a luv and drop this package off at the address on the front? I know you won't mind, since your portfolio is being done for you gratis."
Yvonne North offered Illya the package as he was buttoning his shirt and shoving it down into his jeans. He halfway expected her to reach in and help him, not certain that he would turn her away.
"Yes, my pleasure…Yvonne". He let his eyes meet hers for just long enough to convey his willingness to please her…in all things. Certainly that was the intent of the attempted drugging. She responded with a slow and evocative smile, showing perfect teeth beneath the pleasantly full lips. He felt something like attraction rising up, and hoped he could remove himself in time to avoid anything more telling.
"Dear, can you forgive me if we skip lunch this time? Check in at the agency tomorrow please…around ten".
Illya nodded, relieved at the temporary reprieve. With the parcel in his right hand he waved a goodbye with his left and headed for the address given him.
Illya walked about two blocks before he came to his destination and, calling on Andre' once again to reappear, he entered through a double glass doorway into what was without a doubt a Thrush business. Recognizing the bullish faces of two men who were certainly not in the magazine trade, the blond hoped that they hadn't been scouring books filled with photographs of UNCLE agents. Illya replaced his cap and pulled it down over his eyes as he headed to the desk to drop off the package.
"Here, Miss North asked me to deliver this". The woman at the desk peered up from beneath black framed glasses, adjusting her gaze slightly at the blond in front of her.
"Oh, you must be the Frenchman. I guess we'll be seeing a lot of you from now on."
"Perhaps so. I was unaware of being…how do you say it…famous".
The smile cracked his face and the accent left her dazed. She hoped this one would not be wasted as some of the others had been. He seemed destined for bigger things than merely courier service.
With the task completed, Illya made his way back to his loft. He pulled out the communicator from the inside pocket of the leather jacket, opened it and initiated a transmission, leaving the faux pen in his pocket so that he could walk and talk without appearing anything more than preoccupied. It was New York, after all. No one was completely sane.
"Open channel D…Kuryakin here"
"Hey, partner. How was the photo shoot…should I expect to see your picture at the newsstands?"
The kidding was good natured, and Illya was disinclined to be offended. He was actually anxious to see the results himself. That was a surprise to his normally egoless nature. He could understand being attractive and interesting to other people, he just didn't usually have opportunity to dwell on it or exploit it like this. On the other hand, he wondered if Miss North hadn't tapped into something hidden beneath the surface.
"I will see them tomorrow, at Miss North's office. She assures me that I have a career in this sort of thing, should I desire it".
Solo sucked in a breath on the other end. He knew his partner was kidding…probably.
"Well, I hope you'll share with the rest of us' He paused then added...
"Say, dinner again tonight? We should probably compare notes on this thing, and I happen to be free"
The blue eyes crinkled as Illya smiled at the thought of another subdued evening in the company of his friend. It would do him good to shake off this sense of…he didn't have words for it. He just knew he needed to keep his focus on the real world.
"Yes, shall we meet someplace? I could go for Italian…lots of pasta sounds good".
"Ah, Antonio's?" They knew the establishment well, and would be able to secure a safe table, away from prying eyes.
"See you at eight".
The rest of the day was spent surveying the Look of Love offices, staying out of sight in a secured apartment across the street. It was a curiosity that they had chosen a residential neighborhood for this; possibly a means of remaining under the radar. He saw young people coming and going, paperwork in their hands as they departed. Some looked hopeful, others were obvious rejects to the Thrush plan, whatever it truly was. He understood that the courier task had been his first for what might become a long trail of innocuous assignments. If the cab ride were an indication, he had been gassed somehow, in an attempt to fog his reactions possibly. He had certainly sensed a change in his attitude, a willingness to put himself in front of that camera and…
The thought of his total lack of inhibition was shocking now in the aftermath. He wasn't certain that he had been in control after all, even though he had been aware of the drug and hoped he was resisting its effect.
Illya began to wonder just what those photographs would contain, and if there were any gaps in his memory of the session. Rather than dwell on the unpleasant possibilities, he continued to watch the front door of the Thrush enterprise, making notations regarding the people, taking photographs of those who walked out with paperwork looking happy rather than dejected. He needed to meet some of the others who were being recruited, and find out more about the types they were looking for. He was only one. There had to be more who met the criteria.
Across the street the door opened, and as a girl was departing, Miss North became visible in the doorway. She was following this one out and making further comments to her, which Illya found strange. The young woman was nodding her head, smiling and then waved as the door closed behind her. Perhaps she had just been recruited; she had the requisite paperwork in her hands. He ran downstairs and, carefully looking out to make sure no one was watching him, he began to follow the girl with the long honey colored hair. He remained far enough behind to not be noticed, keeping his pace slow enough to not appear anxious. Illya kept in step with others on the sidewalk who were steadfastly making their way to destinations unknown. The girl slowed slightly in front of a coffee shop, as though unsure of her intentions. Then, casually, she entered, not looking back or around her. He didn't think she had seen him, but he passed it by just the same. It seemed too obvious to wander into the same establishment, and decided to wait and see if she showed up tomorrow. For some reason, he thought she just might.
Napoleon was waiting for him when the scrubby Russian appeared. He was wearing his shirt open nearly to the middle of his chest, and his hair was decidedly more rumpled than usual. The brown eyes watched as his partner entered the restaurant, taken aback slightly at the stares he garnered as he made his way to the back table, noticing the number of women who stopped what they were doing or snuck a glance beneath the attentions of their companions.
There was something about him as the seemingly indifferent man made his way with a barely discernible swagger. Without knowing what was going on around him, Illya had completely disrupted the mood of the restaurant by just walking in. Had he not witnessed it, Napoleon would probably not have believed an account of it from someone else.
"So…what have you been doing today besides raising women's libido's?"
Solo was caught somewhere between a chuckle and concern. Illya looked confused by the question, but he smiled back at his friend. He felt different, and he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Walking into the restaurant he had not wanted to look around, but it was impossible to not notice how the atmosphere had suddenly changed from a lively den of conversation into an expectant pause as he walked through it.
"I don't know what you mean. Perhaps they haven't seen any blonds today and are just curious". He tried to laugh it off, but even his partner was staring at him a way that made him feel…exposed.
"Illya, something is different about you. And it's not just the fact that you're practically undressing in public,' He motioned to the unbuttoned shirt, causing Illya to raise his hand up to his chest involuntarily, then drop it again to the table.
"What exactly did you do today…with the Thrushies? Are they feeding you something to create this effect?"
There was a visceral reaction to his partner, even he could sense it; no telling what it was doing to the females in the room. He expected a sudden rush on their table, and he was going to have to admit it wouldn't be to fall over him this time.
"That's ridiculous, they just want a little something to go with their dinner…a show perhaps". Illya held a hand to his forehead, rubbing out the beginnings of a migraine. He'd been suffering with it for an hour or so, just below the surface and behind his eyes. His partner noticed the movement, familiar with the signs and the deepening of already deep set eyes.
"I did feel something this morning though. Sort of a disconnect…I don't know how to explain it. The shoot was extraordinary, really. I …' How could he say this and not humiliate himself…he gave a weak smile.
"I actually enjoyed it. It was freeing somehow, to be on display like that, and it made me feel…good".
He looked at his friend, hoping for some help from him, surprised to have admitted his feelings about it. Even that was unlike him, regardless of the mission. He didn't always tell everything…
Napoleon was searching the blue eyes, looking for a clue to this new behavior. It wasn't just the experience, Thrush had something that they were using on these new recruits; something to persuade them to cooperate in unfamiliar circumstances.
"Illya, think back. Did you eat or drink anything? Did you smell anything?"
Something had happened, and the effects were extraordinary and disturbing. If the man in front of him could affect a room like he had by just walking into it, what kind of project was the Look of Love dating service. What about the modeling? There was more to it than just a courier service and basic recruitment. Of that the Chief Enforcement Agent was certain.
Illya's thinking mirrored that of his partner.
"I have another meeting with Miss North in the morning. Perhaps I can isolate something then. I did notice some effects that were unusual this morning during the photo shoot. I thought perhaps that there had been something in the taxi on the ride over. I didn't smell anything, but I can't imagine it being anything or anytime other than that. We were always in the same room except…' The office. He had been alone in her office.
"It must be in her office. I had to wait for her in there for about a half an hour. I don't know how they did it, but it must have been then". He felt relieved to have a source. But, what was it? They were increasing his confidence, his sex appeal?
"Okay, tomorrow you will need to be very aware of the sequence of events, and the environment. We don't know how to shield you from it. Are you ever in contact with anyone else…any other models?"
"No, not so far. I did see a girl today who seemed to be of particular interest to Yvonne…Miss North. She followed her out the door, which seemed very out of character. She sticks to her office usually."
Napoleon considered that, wondering if it wasn't time for him to enter the picture and see about this Miss North. Perhaps she needed handling in his special, more mature manner.
"I have an idea, tovarisch. Perhaps I'll stop by tomorrow and check in on the lady. I think there's a magazine out there looking for new faces, and I know just where to go to find them." He winked and took a sip of his wine.
"Let's order."
The next morning found Yvonne North sitting at her desk contemplating the day's schedule. She would reset the controls on her room atomizer. Two more new recruits would be coming in today, in addition to Andre'. She needed to make sure the effects could last throughout the day. So far, the results were more than she had hoped for. Yesterday's session with the Frenchman had been very satisfying; his transformation from the shy young man she met on Tuesday into the prurient aphrodesiac she had witnessed during the photo shoot with Robert had been revelatory. Even she had not been completely immune to the effect he was engendering from the process. To think what he would be with daily exposure to her invention made her pulse race as she imagined her own stable of beautiful faces, taking what they wanted from willing victims. This was a future she was invested in, and her victory over the plain and dowdy masses, even her taskmasters in Thrush, was nearer than even she had hoped.
"Miss North, you have someone to see you."
The interruption caused her to re-enter the business at hand. Who was she expecting? She got up from her chair, smoothing the skirt of her lime green suit, confident as always and curious about the early visitor.
"Miss North, this is Mr. Solo. He doesn't have an appointment…" She looked him over from his handmade leather loafers up to his immaculate haircut. The eyes held her momentarily before she extended her hand for an introduction.
"My name is Napoleon Solo, and it's a pleasure to meet you Miss North." She thought the smile was disingenuous, being a prudent judge of such things. He wanted something from her, and that was unsettling. She was usually the shark in these waters.
"Mr. Solo… What can I do for you?" He held her hand just a moment longer than was necessary, letting his index finger slide ever so softly on her palm, causing a slight ripple in her calm. This one would do to watch carefully.
"I am looking for new talent for a magazine that is preparing to launch. I have heard along the grapevine that you are cultivating some of that here. Although, I wasn't aware that dating services had branched into modeling."
The smile again. She returned it, tooth for tooth, and motioned for him to enter her office. He was just the type to be on the hunt for a pretty face, so perhaps they did have something to talk about.
As it turned out, Mr. Solo did have some offers for her to consider. His hunt for new faces would perhaps fit into her plan. It certainly wouldn't hurt to actually make money on these young people to whom she was giving a free pass to uncharted power. The conversation was brief, the agreement without promise. The man was off onto another agency very quickly, and she was expecting Andre'.
Illya's appointment with Yvonne was still an hour away; his morning routine now seemed to be established with ten o'clock appointments a daily event. He was feeling a little more like himself today, although there was a lingering sense of keen body awareness. It was almost laughable, considering the daring escapades he had shared with Napoleon, but somehow today, he really did feel invincible. Not in the way it affected him to survive bullets and being beaten nearly to death. This was an aura of power with which he was unfamiliar. It occurred to him that perhaps this was the way his partner went through life, supremely confident concerning his interactions with people. This was indeed new for him.
By the time Andre' Beauvais walked into the Look of Love office, he had been approached by three women asking him for a date. In this new role of a wandering lathario, the blond had accepted their phone numbers, mumbling that he didn't have a lot of time, but maybe he'd call. He strode into the room dressed in a pair of faded blue jeans and a white tee shirt, topped by a dark blue vest. His hair was finger combed onto his forehead, just a few shades lighter than the tan boots he wore. The effect was not lost on the women in the room, and as Napoleon was exiting the office of Yvonne North, he similarly stopped to take a long look at the handsome young man he recognized as his partner.
'Whoa, he's either a better actor than even I thought, or there's something else going on.'
Napoleon nodded to his partner as he passed to the outer door, receiving a slight wink in the process. It eased his mind only slightly, the visceral reaction to the Russian disturbing the normally cool thinking American.
Yvonne greeted the surly blond from the doorway to her office.
"Andre', so good to see you this morning. You look…exquisite." She meant it, too. Even she was having trouble resisting this one. Miss North didn't know why it was working so well with him, but could only conjecture that his receptivity to her formula was high and of a particularly compatible nature. She motioned him to sit on the couch under the window, easing herself down next to him as close as she could. Her hands began to run across his stomach, feeling him twitch at the touch and then relax as he caught her eyes with his and closed his hand around her neck, drawing their faces together. Suddenly he tightened the grip on her neck and held her there, teasing her lips with the nearness of his own before pushing her away from him. She gasped, not comprehending his refusal nor understanding her own weakness. He was in control. That was wrong, wasn't it?
"Andre', I'm sorry. That was so inappropriate of me. Please, forgive me". He looked at her now from beneath long eyelashes, the blue a glint between nearly closed lids. He was breathing deeply, trying to diffuse the moment, to gain some control over what his body was longing for.
"I…I don't know what that was. I don't know what's happening to me, but this isn't who I am". She smiled now, knowing what it was and that, in spite of her momentary weakness, he was hers to do as she wished. This one would make her powerful. Just a little longer and he would no longer resist it.
"Dearest, you are just in need of some rest, perhaps. Why don't you lie down and take a nap, here on my sofa. We have time. I'll have the photos ready for you when you wake up". The invitation seemed right to him as he reclined on the leather, accepting a pillow from her and a kiss on the forehead. He did need to rest, sleep…
And then he was out. The effects of the drug that seeped noiselessly into the room began to do its work. He would ingest even more, become the walking aphrodisiac she had dreamed of engineering for her own purposes. Thrush would bow to her shortly, meeting her demands and offering her more of the world than they dreamed they could. Perhaps she would unleash Andre' onto the Central Committee, let them grovel for his affections while she raided their domain.
When Andre' awoke from his nap he was aware that he had been dreaming. He had become a big cat, long and lean, on the prowl for a meal among the people surrounding him. There had been an awareness that the prey was unresisting, almost willing to be consumed by him and it gave him a great sense of pleasure. He had finally come upon one of his choosing when he heard a noise from somewhere…the intercom.
"Oh, my love, you are awake. Did the nap help?"
Yvonne, solicitous and beautiful; desireable perhaps.
"Yes, I think so. No, my head hurts terribly. I think a migraine is developing." He rubbed his temples, shutting his eyes against the afternoon sun that streamed through her large window. He needed to get out of here, a sense of danger was beneath the surface of this struggle with his new identity and the man he really was. Something was wrong.
"I want to show you your photographs, dear. Here, come and look at them with me." She invited him over with the hopes of stemming the panic she saw rising in the blue eyes. Too much of her mist was going to have a negative effect on this one, she could tell. Where was the girl? She should have been here by now.
"Oh, yes I would like to see those, and then I should leave. I really don't feel well." Escape, that was what Illya wanted.
Again the intercom interrupted the room's repose.
"Miss North, Ginny is here. Should I send her in?" Finally, the new recruit. She would help this situation.
"Yes, Darlene. Right away."
Illya looked up as the door opened and the girl from yesterday walked in. She was very pretty, and the hair was the same honey color he remembered; long and straight, she was the image of the new fashion vanguard. He felt a little better just watching her walk in.
"Ginny dear, this is Andre'. He is also new. We're just looking at his photos from his first shoot with Robert. Would you like to see them?"
The girl blushed slightly, the images of the man in front of her were on the desk, and she could see how raw and sensual they were. Is that what they had planned for her? She wasn't certain that this was what she needed right now.
"Here Andre', look at these." Illya moved over to the desk, looking at the images in the photographs. How did they manage to capture that?
"I'm stunned, Yvonne. I had no idea…" She was sure he hadn't had an idea what he was capable of in front of a camera; but she knew.
"You are a beautiful man, and these photographs do you justice. Are you pleased?" Illya was embarrassed to admit that he was.
"May I have some prints of these? I would like to show them to a…friend, if that is alright.''
Yvonne considered it, then gave him the one that most dramatically captured the mood of her intentions. It was nearly feral in its effect. A wild thing, captured just momentarily in the photographer's skillful eye.
"Yes, by all means. And, please let me know the reaction. It might be helpful to hear some feedback, even if it is prejudiced slightly." A wink was his dismissal for the day, knowing he would be back tomorrow for more of the same. Eventually, the doses would be administered less frequently, but for now, she needed him to be constant.
"Tomorrow then, but before you leave, will you pick up a packet at Darlene's desk...it's just another little delivery. Perhaps you can do that for me." The faux Frenchman smiled, nodding his head as he left.
"Yes, it will be a pleasure. Until tomorrow."
Illya picked up the package, leaving the girl at the desk nearly in tears, her desire for him so completely overwhelming. He headed out the door and up the block to the address listed, leaving a path of lingering glances and quickened heartbeats as he made his way to the drop off. The headache was increasing, and once he had finished this obvious courier assignment, Illya determined to go back to headquarters. Medical would have something for this migraine. He suspected that he also needed blood work done, because something wasn't right. He was spinning into unknown territory, and for once would welcome a doctor's prodding if it would extinguish the flame that was burning through him.
Ginny Deeds was a nice girl, with a good head on her shoulders. She went to class and kept a 4.0 grade average, worked part time at the cosmetics counter in Bergdorff Goodman, and generally could date any man she wanted. It's just that none of those men were what she wanted. Her standards were perhaps too high for the typical college student, and the men she met at the cosmetics counter were married; something that didn't stop them from asking her out. Still, there was something about this dating service, LOL for short they had said, that didn't quite feel like it should. And this new business of modeling was a surprise. Why would they want her? Ever since she had sat in that office and spoken with Miss North, she'd had a funny feeling that her thinking was derailed somehow. She felt very confident, and just in the past few hours she'd had more offers for a date or a drink than in the past month. Yep, something was off. She'd have talk to Miss North about it. The photographs of the man, Andre', she couldn't possibly do anything like that. He looked incredible, but she knew this wasn't for her. She should drop out of this program. She didn't need it. She'd just stick to her cosmetics job and do her school work like always.
The address was different from the first one Illya had visited. This time, in spite of some effort on his part to remain subdued inasmuch as it was possible, he found that the people in the office wanted to touch him and offer him coffee or tea or whatever else came to mind. One girl blatantly handed him her phone number and address, along with a lascivious slick of her tongue around the perimeter of her mouth. He nearly laughed at her, but managed to just back out of the building without encountering any more overt gestures. He hailed a cab and headed for UNCLE headquarters, missing his old life and not the least bit concerned that he held the photograph in his hand, an item he knew his partner would snatch from him sooner or later.
As he entered the cab he noted that he was sweating, even though the temperature was mild. His head was ready to split, and his vision was blurred behind the tears generated by the pain. His sunglasses helped a little, but not enough to keep him from nearly taking a header down the step to Del Floria's. He was able to get through the door and into the dressing room, then into the reception area before collapsing onto one of the small benches in that room. He was holding his head, not mindful that the envelope holding his photograph slid to the floor. Amy, the girl at the desk, called for medical and then for Mr. Solo. The agent reached him first, kneeling in front of the receding figure, trying to offer some assurances of help. He picked up the envelope, snatching it out of the path of a foot as the doctor from the medical unit appeared in his line of sight.
"What's the problem? Do we have a history?" Napoleon helped Illya up from the bench and then escorted the nearly unconscious agent into the elevator, willing the car to move more quickly. A gurney was waiting and was wheeled into an exam area by an attendant with the doctor and Napoleon close on his heels. Immediately there was activity as needles came out, monitors were activated and blood samples taken. The efficiency was impressive, but then these people were used to extreme situations.
"His heart rate is up to 130 and his temperature is…geez, it's 105. No wonder he's sweating…time for an ice bath for this one.
Then an entirely inappropriate remark slipped out from one of the nurses, followed by a glare from the doctor. Oddly enough, he understood her response to the patient. They all did.
Napoleon was waiting beyond the curtain, hearing all of the chatter, his concern for his friend deepening moment by moment. What the hell had happened? They needed to find out what Miss North was using on these recruits, and what she hoped to gain from it. It was time for a little night time visit. Now, though, his partner was the priority.
Once Illya was in a room, stabilized and resting, Napoleon allowed himself a trip back to his office. He still had the envelope he had picked up in the reception area; the one his partner had dropped. He wanted to see what was in it before he started planning the reconnaissance he would go on tonight in the Look of Love offices. Somehow, Miss North was dosing Illya with a substance that had set off this reaction. His partner always had bad reactions to Thrush drugs, and this seemed to be no exception, the difference being the severity of the toxic effect on him. He was musing on this as he slid out the photograph from the envelope…
"Damn". That's all he had to say.
An hour later the phone call came.
"The blood test results are back. I think you'll want to see this, Mr. Solo."
The doctor sounded slightly puzzled, he observed. It must be time for some answers. He left the photograph on his desk and headed back to medical, hoping there was something useful in the reports from the lab. As he entered through the swishing doors, he was surprised to see Mr. Waverly already in the room, head down and concern for his agent showing on the weathered face.
"Ah, Mr. Solo. We have some very interesting results here. I, for one, don't know quite what to make of it. Perhaps you can add to the discussion."
The invitation was readily accepted, Napoleon's attention only briefly interrupted as he glanced at the man in the bed; his partner was still out, and the image of how he looked now in comparison to the photograph he'd just recently seen was startling. Napoleon Solo was vexed.
"Sir, Doctor Winston…do we have some answers?"
"The results are interesting. Mind you, they are subject to very recent research…well, within the past ten or twelve years say…interesting. It seems that Mr. Kuryakin has been exposed to, and somehow has assimilated, large quantities of pheromones."
Napoleon didn't have a clue. His expression bade the doctor to continue…
"Pharemones were only just named in the past decade. The research is not comprehensive, to say the least. But, according to these results, they are in such large quantities, massive actually, in our patient's bloodstream that it's no wonder he's eliciting the types of comments you may have heard from my nurse. These hormones, according to what is currently understood, contribute to a type of…mating call, if you will. Combined with the undetectable odor…'
Napoleon wondered how an odor could be undetectable.
"…the response from opposite genders is such that the one emitting these highly desirable…well, it's a little difficult to describe actually."
"You're doing a splendid job, I'm sure, Doctor Winston. I take it these hormones make the subject very attractive to the opposite sex."
Waverly cut to the chase very well on this. Napoleon wondered why he understood the subject matter …
"So, you're saying that somehow, without Illya knowing it, he was pumped full of these pheromones, and turned into a walking sex god?"
He had to laugh, although it came out as a little snort, realizing how miserable his partner was, and how sick he had become. Still, the irony…
"Well, yes I guess that's about it. Have you noticed any…I don't know…reactions to him that are out of the ordinary, or more pronounced?"
Doctor Winston was treading on unfamiliar territory, to be sure. Sex therapy or hormone treatments were not his forte', the latter being such a new field that it had little enough documentation to support any of this.
"Well, yes, now that you mention it. We had dinner in a little Italian restaurant last night, and when he walked in it very nearly stopped the entire production. Women were drooling over him as he passed by. He thought he had come in contact with something in the office of the woman whose operation he has infiltrated. He was a little uncomfortable in his skin for all of it."
Now Waverly had some questions.
"Mr. Solo, what do you suspect is the reason for this…treatment? What does she hope to gain from it?" Napoleon would hazard a guess, but he figured he would know more after his mission this evening.
"I'm not entirely certain, sir. I do believe that Illya could have gotten whatever he wanted from nearly anyone in that room last night. And today, when I passed him in the offices, even I felt…attracted to him. The room was fairly lit up with him. It was a little disturbing, to tell you the truth."
Now that he considered the situation, he was certain that this was a power ploy, something that had the potential to let Yvonne North walk in and take whatever she wanted, all because of hyped up hormones. It was fascinating.
"I'm taking Mr. Slate with me tonight to do a little surveillance and investigation, at the source. We should be able to gather something of interest."
The old man looked into his agent's eyes, then over to the bed where his number two lay, still laboring to rid himself of the afflicting toxins.
"Yes indeed, do that, Mr. Solo. Let's stop this now."
With his order given Waverly left, the pneumatic doors swishing softly in his wake as the doctor and the dark eyed agent turned their attention back to the blond man who had brought them here.
"It really is quite extraordinary, Mr. Solo. Hopefully the lab boys will be able to pinpoint how it got into his system. For now, he just needs to rest and let his body try and recover."
"Thank you Doctor. I think I'll stay for a bit, sort of keep an eye on my partner."
It was nearly five o'clock when Mark Slate finally came into medical to check in with this evening's partner. He took a look at the Russian, mentally logging the number of hours the man had spent in here. He whistled in response to what he was aware of, never mind the trips he'd missed knowing about.
"How's he doin' mate?" Napoleon had been in and out of medical all afternoon, speaking to his friend only once when he had stirred for a few minutes.
"This has really taken a toll on his system. I don't know if everyone is reacting like this, or if she just dosed him up more than any of the others. Or, for that matter, if there are others. Hell, he may have been the first one to get this treatment."
Tonight he would find out, and he would also identify the method of delivery. It needed to be stopped. It wouldn't do for someone like Miss North to have this kind of power to persuade people, not to mention the potential threat to her victims.
"It's all good, we'll take care of it…' Slate paused as he considered the cause.
…"Pheromones, eh? Do we know exactly what they do to people, normally I mean?"
Napoleon wasn't sure he understood it, except he was beginning to surmise that he had more than his fair share, accounting perhaps for why women fell so easily to his charms.
"Mark, it's chemistry, and that's not my forte'. However, the dosage that Miss North gave to Illya became toxic when combined with her method of delivering it into his system. Apparently, and this is not exact, something in men's sweat can attract the opposite sex, and the pharemones are the added punch that sends out a message that the man is available. Women have them, too, but I'm not sure how it works. Ironically, the guy who could explain it to us is the one lying in a hospital bed. I guess we'll have to get the lowdown when he's back in service."
Mark winced at that.
"That is an unfortunate turn of phrase, all things considered." He was grinning, but they didn't want to repeat it…
"I heard that" That growling voice was unmistakable. He was back, and Napoleon didn't want to go into all of it just now.
"Hey partner, feeling any better?" Serious now, Napoleon hoped there weren't any after affects to all of this.
"My head still hurts. What are you two talking about? How do you know about pheromones?" Ah, so he was aware of them.
"Well, it seems that is what Miss North has been pumping into your system, along with some other mystery drug. You were so inundated with them in your bloodstream that it caused the migraine, the increase in your heart rate, and all of that sweating. You were sort of a mess."
He enjoyed the look of utter disdain on his friend's face; the blue eyes rolled around until it probably caused more pain behind them.
"You mean I'm not just naturally irresistible? How disappointing.'
He winced and pushed his head farther back into the pillow.
"Can I have something for the headache, please? Oh, I think I may need to…"
"Oohhh, get a bucket or a trashcan Mark!"
Illya heaved over the side of the bed while Napoleon held his shoulders, keeping him from falling out of it. Mark slid the can under the flow of bile and whatever else was in his stomach, just before it hit the floor, keeping the mess to a minimum. All three of them gagged at the unmistakable odor.
"Hey, Illya, let me help you… Mark, get a nurse."
Illya started convulsing, sweating with what little hydration was left in his body. Napoleon tried to not panic, but it was so sudden that he felt helpless in its onset.
"Out of the way."
Napoleon and Mark both obliged as Doctor Winston and a determined looking nurse took over. Napoleon and Mark just stood back, watching as a sedative was administered, the hospital gown was removed and ice packs settled over the fevered body. Illya's temperature had spiked, signaling the spasms and sweating. He was massively dehydrated due to the extreme sweating, and now lay naked under a layer of ice, his breathing gaining some regularity with the effects of the sedative, and a new IV with saline pumping into his veins.
The two agents realized they had been holding their breath and, in unison, let out a huge expulsion of air as the activity died down. Hormones had done this?
"Mark, let's get a plan in place. We're going in at midnight." With that, they retreated to Napoleon's office to set the plan in motion.
As the two men entered Napoleon's office, they were greeted by the delightful smile of Miss April Dancer, female agent extraordinaire. Mark's lovely partner had just returned from a solo assignment in England; a simple little courier task that she had completed in under 48 hours. Now she wanted a rest from flying, but had stopped in to say "hi" and pick up some mail she thought would be waiting for her. What she hadn't expected to find was an incredible photograph of Illya Kuryakin. Napoleon had left it on his desk, making it quite available to anyone who happened to come in and see it. Now that the other two were back, perhaps she could get an explanation for what this was…besides an unbelievably beautiful portrait of the man as she had never seen him before.
"Oh, I see you have the picture. Amazing, isn't it."
"What is it? I haven't seen it yet…hand it over". Mark looked at it…"Damn."
"That's what I said." Napoleon was still a little disturbed at his reaction. Like it or not, their little Russian was…what did the kids say…a stone fox.
The street lights were a little too bright for Napoleon's purposes. He had hoped to find a way in that wasn't in view of passersby, but regardless of where he looked, there was some sort of illumination that would make getting in without notice a little bit difficult. His only consolation was the time of night and the apparent lack of activity from any of the neighbors. Honestly, after tomorrow, it wouldn't matter anyway. He intended to close this one down. Mark was right behind him as he located a window to the basement, then very carefully used his glass cutter to carve out a hole just above the old fashioned lock. The audacity of Thrush was part of their weakness. For some reason, these jokers never seemed to get the idea in their heads that security involved more than a lock on the front door.
He secured the cut out piece and pulled it free with a suction holder, then slipped his hand in and unlocked the window. From there he and Mark entered the dark and cluttered room, making their way across to the stairs that led up into the main floors above. There seemed to be no one around, and no alarms were evident. Mark checked for electric circuits, alarms and surveillance equipment. Finding none he gave Napoleon the go ahead to proceed. When the door was opened, it was to a soft swath of lighting that barely gave them a path to follow into the office of Yvonne North. The door was locked and, sucking in breath, Mark did some magic on it and released the mechanism ever so gently. Still, no alarms, nothing suspicious to their eyes or ears. The sensor that the British agent carried still showed no signs of electronic interference. They seemed to be safe.
Napoleon shined his light around the room, then stiffened slightly at a body on the floor. It was Yvonne North. She looked…she was dead. Her clothing was still damp and the skin was clammy, not quite cold from rigor. The unmistakable odor of vomit was in the room, something they had missed initially, probably due to the heightened stress of breaking and entering. Now that they recognized it, the sickening odor was nearly overwhelming.
"She must have had the same symptoms as Illya. She was dosing herself. That's not what normally happens in these situations."
Napoleon wondered if it had been her plan, or an accident…or had she seen the effect on her prize guinea pig and decided it would work for her as well. Perhaps her records would give them a clue.
"Napoleon, there's someone else in here…a girl". The senior agent was beside Slate immediately, jumping across Yvonne's body and into the shadows where Mark was kneeling over a girl who was just now coming to.
"Miss, are you alright? Let us help you." Both men were struck by how attractive she was, her long straight hair shining in the sliver of light that reached her.
"I…I don't know what happened. One minute I was talking to Yvonne, and then…' she saw the body of the woman she had referred to.
"Is that her? What's going on?" They lifted her up and offered what little explanation they felt safe in sharing.
"Did you have any odd…hmm….have you felt okay the past few days?"
Napoleon wasn't sure how to approach this. He really didn't understand what Illya had even been through, so explaining it was difficult. The girl nodded however, willing to admit she hadn't felt normal for the past 24 hours.
"I kept having to fight off guys. That's not normal for me. I mean, I date, but these guys were…aggressive. I came back here to talk to Miss North and she kept trying to get me to lie down and rest. I just wanted answers, and to not be involved with this agency. I got bad vibes here."
Napoleon had started going through the file cabinet while Mark was listening intently to the girl, pulling out the folders that he thought looked pertinent to their investigation. He found Illya's…Andre' Beauvais.
"What is your name, miss? We think we have some answers, but we'll need to look over these files to make sure."
"Ginny Deeds…my name is Ginny."
Napoleon found her file and pulled it out. To Mark, he indicated he should come a little closer…
"We need to shut this place down. Whatever they've been doing here, it's killed at least one person and we know what it did to Illya. Now this girl…we need to know how she delivered it."
Mark nodded and set about searching the walls, the vents and floorboards, until he thought he had something.
"Napoleon, there's a small tube here that goes into what appears to be the intercom board. I think I can trace it if I cut through the drywall and…well, tear the wall apart."
Napoleon thought about it, then pulled out his communicator.
"Open channel D, this is Solo." He asked for a section 8 connection.
"Barnes here, how can I help you Mr. Solo?"
"We have a delivery system here that is responsible for whatever was used to drug Mr. Kuryakin. There's a woman here who has died from the same exposure. The intercom in the wall seems to be the origin for the room, but it goes into the wall. I think we need some assistance here to trace it back to the source. Do you have any technicians who can get over here and help us out?"
Kuryakin was like one of their own, regardless of his Section Two status.
"Right away. What's the address?"
The next day produced a For Rent sign in the window of what had previously been The Look of Love dating service. UNCLE shut it down and took over the premises, transferring all of the files to headquarters, disengaging the delivery system that had poisoned one of their own and killed the Thrush queen bee. The girl, Ginny, was sent to medical as a guest of her new UNCLE, where she received prompt care and a couple of flirtatious winks from some bold employees there. She readily submitted to the blood tests, being more than willing to make sure she didn't come to the same end as Yvonne North. Ginny was advised to go back to school and steer clear of promises of quick fame or fortune; advice that she gratefully accepted.
Mr. Waverly, Napoleon and Illya were all gathered in Medical for the final examination and appraisal. Based on the last lab results the excess pheromones were gone, which meant the Russian would have to depend on his own natural charms from here on out.
Additionally, the method of delivery had been confirmed as a very heavily concentrated gas with the ability to penetrate the skin and enter the bloodstream via the lungs.
Miss North had succumbed to an extreme overdose, was apparently consuming the gas directly in order to boost herself into an unnaturally heightened state of sexual appeal. According to the notes that Napoleon poured over in his search for clues, she had indeed found that the effect on Andre' was so extraordinary that she coveted the same prowess for herself.
Illya was still amazed at the effects of the drug.
"I am happy to be well rid of it. All of those people wanting to touch me, staring at me…it was most uncomfortable". Illya meant it. He didn't need the extra attention. He did wonder about the girl, Ginny.
"How is she, the other subject…Ginny?" His shy expression was so different from the bold and confident man under the influence of the drug. The doctor made a mental note regarding his handling of these Section II agents.
"She's doing well. Her exposure was not so great as yours, and we released her after some observation. I believe she left a number…just in case we needed to contact her".
The doctor was gentle with the tentative agent. He knew him well after all of his trips to medical. His bark…well, the bite was bad, but still he was subject to this type of timidity.
"Oh, that's good. Perhaps I will call her…to see how she is recovering...since we have shared this experience". Napoleon had to smile. This was a different man. The change was incredible.
There was an inordinate amount of noise outside, and Napoleon went to check on it, walking Mr. Waverly out as he did so. The Number One of Section One had work still on his desk and agents out in the world that needed his careful handling. These two would be fine now.
"What's all of the noise about?" Napoleon's partner was still recovering, and this hubbub was a disturbance…
"Mr. Solo, have you seen this? I can't believe this is Mr. Kuryakin."
The nurses' station was running over with the sort of oohs and aahs usually reserved for movie stars and musicians.
I am afraid to look. Napoleon looked anyway.
"Where did you get this? It was on my desk and it belongs to Illya." It was no use, they weren't going to give it back. Worse yet, he thought he saw another one, and…
"How many of these do you have?" The girls smiled and continued to pass them out.
"Someone made copies for us. They're all over headquarters." Oh, this was bad…very bad.
"Who knew Mr. Kuryakin could look like…this. Even the scar on his stomach looks sexy….Wow! Did I just say Kuryakin and stomach in the same sentence?"
Shrieks and giggles. Napoleon was dead meat. Waverly's eyebrows shot up in an imitation of two miniature hedgehogs as a wry smile appeared in recognition of the bruhaha ahead. Napoleon debated whether or not to simply flee the building, but instead returned to the room he had just exited.
"Uh, Illya…you know the picture that you brought in. The one Yvonne gave you…that one?"
Blond eyebrows arched suspiciously; he'd forgotten about that photograph. He certainly hoped no one else had seen it.
"What have you done Napoleon?"
The growl again. Why must it always be the growl?
"I actually didn't do anything, you see. I think maybe someone took it off of my desk and, well…you see…I think there are copies of it circulating…"
"Napoleon!"